Talking Story with Arlo: Talking Story with Arlo - Vegas with Daisy, Ruby, and Doris: A VW Adventure

Talking Story with Arlo

A Day in Vegas with Daisy, Ruby, and Doris: A VW Adventure

By Arlo Agogo

The desert dawn was painting the sky in hues of pink and gold when I climbed into Ruby, my 2004 Ford pickup, her red body gleaming like a polished ruby in the early light.

"Daisy" and Her American Friend "Ruby"

Hitched to her trailer was Daisy, my 1968 Volkswagen dune buggy, her yellow paint as vibrant as a sunflower in full bloom.

Together, we were headed for the Las Vegas VW Car Show, a national gathering for Volkswagens 55 years and older—a pilgrimage for gearheads like me who live for the rattle and hum of air-cooled engines.

But this wasn’t just a road trip; it was a day of groove, grit, and the kind of soul-deep connection that only comes from sharing the road with a kindred spirit.

My new friend Doris Day, a fellow Brit with a ’69 VW dune buggy of her own, was joining me for the adventure, and with Daisy and her American friend Ruby leading the way, we were in for a day to remember.

I met Doris at the AVI resort in Laughlin, Nevada just off the I-95. Her smile was brighter than the Mojave sun, and her accent—thick as London fog—took me right back to my roots.

She hopped into Ruby’s cab, her eyes sparkling with the same car-show fever I’d been nursing all week. With Daisy securely hitched, we hit the highway for the 60-minute drive to the Las Vegas fairgrounds.

The road stretched out before us, a ribbon of asphalt cutting through the desert’s stark beauty, and Ruby’s V8 purred like a contented cat. Doris and I fell into easy conversation, swapping stories about our VWs and the quirky characters we’d met at shows like the one in Lake Havasu, where we’d first crossed paths.

“You think Daisy’s ready to steal the show?” I asked, glancing at the trailer in the rearview mirror. Doris laughed, her voice warm as a summer breeze. “Mate, Daisy’s a proper star. Those split-window bus owners’ll be queuing up for her autograph.”

We chuckled, the kind of banter that makes miles melt away. We talked about the desert’s odd charm—how it’s both desolate and alive, a place where you can feel the pulse of the earth. Doris shared a tale about a Havasu show where a bloke tried to trade her a truck for her buggy. “As if I’d part with my girl,” she said, shaking her head.

I nodded, knowing exactly how she felt. Daisy and Ruby aren’t just vehicles—they’re family.

As we approached Vegas the skyline peeked over the horizon, but we weren’t here for the Strip’s glitz or the clang of slot machines. Our Vegas was the fairgrounds, where the VW Car Show was already in full swing.

We pulled in around 10 a.m., and the lot was a kaleidoscope of automotive history. Split-window buses with pop-top roofs, Karmann Ghias sleek as jazz notes, and Beetles in every color from avocado green to candy-apple red lined the rows.

Daisy, unhitched and parked in her designated spot, drew a crowd faster than a cold beer on a hot day. Her chrome trim gleamed, her rebuilt engine purred, and I swear she winked at the onlookers snapping photos.

Doris, ever the charmer, fielded questions about her own ’69 buggy back in Laughlin, her stories laced with wit and a touch of Thames-side swagger.

With Daisy settled, we grabbed our picnic basket and found a shady spot under a canopy near a row of Type 2 vans. We’d packed a proper English spread, a nod to our shared heritage: cucumber sandwiches (crusts off, naturally), egg salad on soft white bread, and a thermos of Earl Grey with a splash of milk chilled in an ice chest.

Doris had brought her A-game—scones with clotted cream and jam, plus a sugar-dusted sponge cake that looked straight out of a London bakery. We set up a little table, unfolded our camp chairs, and dug in, the hum of VW engines and the chatter of gearheads providing the perfect soundtrack.

“This is the life, innit?” Doris said, sipping her Irish Breakfast tea. I raised my thermos in a mock toast. “To Daisy, Ruby, and days like this.” The tea was warm, the scones were heavenly, and for a moment, the world felt just right.

The car show was a sensory overload in the best way.

We wandered the rows, ogling a ’59 Beetle with a mirror-perfect finish and a ’66 Karmann Ghia so pristine it could’ve rolled off the Wolfsburg line yesterday.

A split-window bus, painted in swirling peace signs and psychedelic flowers, blasted Dylan’s “Like a Rolling Stone” from a retrofitted stereo, and Doris and I couldn’t help but sway to the beat.

“Think Daisy’d look good with a flower-power wrap?” she teased. I grinned. “She’s groovy enough without it, but I reckon you’re plotting a tie-dye job for your buggy.” She laughed, and we kept strolling, swapping tales with owners whose love for their VWs ran as deep as ours.

One guy, a grizzled vet from Oregon, told us how his ’62 Bug survived a flood and still runs like a dream. “These cars are like us,” he said, wiping sweat from his brow. “Keep rolling, no matter what.”

Around noon, the show’s organizers kicked off the “People’s Choice” contest, and Daisy was in the running. Doris and I stood by her side, cheering as judges circled, inspecting her engine, her interior, her soul.

The competition was fierce—a ’57 Bus with a custom interior stole the crowd’s gasps—but Daisy held her own, her yellow curves drawing smiles and thumbs-ups. When the Bus took the crown, Doris leaned in and whispered, “Daisy’s still the queen of the desert.” I nodded, patting Daisy’s hood. “Always will be.”

We toasted her with our tea, the thermos clinking like fine crystal in the desert heat.

As the afternoon sun climbed, we joined a tech talk under a massive canopy, where mechanics shared secrets for keeping air-cooled engines happy in the desert’s brutal heat. Doris scribbled notes for her buggy’s next tune-up, while I chimed in about Daisy’s carburetor tweaks, earning nods from the crowd.

It was a reminder of why we do this—not just for the cars, but for the community. The VW tribe is a family, bound by oil stains, late-night wrenching sessions, and a stubborn refusal to let these machines fade into history. Doris fit right in, her quick wit and gearhead knowledge winning over even the gruffest old-timers.

By 3 p.m., the heat was relentless, so we retreated to our picnic spot for a second round of tea and scones.

The fairgrounds were still alive with activity—kids darting between cars, couples posing for photos, and a group of teens breakdancing to a boombox blaring Santana. We watched it all, content in our little bubble of shade and nostalgia.

Doris pulled out a Polaroid camera—proper old-school—and snapped a shot of Ruby and Daisy together, the Ford’s red bulk framing the buggy’s sunny glow. “For the scrapbook,” she said, handing me the photo.

I tucked it into my wallet, right next to a faded picture of my old London flat.

As 4 p.m. rolled around, the show began to wind down. We polished Daisy one last time, hitched her to Ruby, and said our goodbyes to new friends, promising to reconnect at next year’s show. The drive back to Laughlin was quieter, the kind of contented silence that settles in after a day well spent.

Doris hummed a tune—something soft, like “Tea for Two”—and I felt that beatnik spark flare up, the one that keeps me rolling at 58. The world’s a chaotic place, all iPhones and algorithms, but out here, with Ruby’s engine humming and Daisy trailing behind, life made sense.

Doris felt it too. “Next year?” she asked as we neared Laughlin. “Count me in,” I said, grinning. “Maybe we’ll bring both our buggies and really cause a stir.”

I dropped Doris off under a starry desert sky, her hug warm enough to carry me through the solo drive home. Ruby and Daisy got me back to my corner of the Mojave, where the night was still and the air smelled of sage and possibility.

No moss on this rolling stone—not with friends like Doris and rides like these. The Vegas VW show wasn’t about jackpots or neon; it was about the hum of engines, the taste of tea in the shade, and the kind of connection that keeps a beatnik’s heart grooving.

Daisy and her American friend Ruby?

They’re more than metal and rubber—they’re my ticket to a life that’s still got plenty of funk left in it. And with Doris in the mix, I’ve got a feeling the road ahead is gonna be one hell of a ride.

Groove is in the Heart - Arlo